


Der Gute Kamerad: A Story in Three Parts

by DmitriDesgoffeUndTaxis



Category: The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)
Genre: 1930s, Gen, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-02 23:22:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8687575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DmitriDesgoffeUndTaxis/pseuds/DmitriDesgoffeUndTaxis
Summary: This is a tale told in three parts, the first (prelude) consisting of Dmitri and Henckels in present-day Lutz (1932) as the latter is set to investigate the murder of Mme. D.The two men had both served in the last war, and made the acquaintance of a Berliner named Ludwig Haller during that time. The story, in its first and final part, delves into Dmitri's past with Ludwig (another story will be written specifying Henckels' relationship to Ludwig), and the progression of WWI as seen by that brigade, whose business is namely carried out along the Franco-German border.For Dmitri, World War I was a monumental event (as it was for every man in Europe, but more so for him, for reasons which will become self-evident with reading), one which shed his boyhood aspirations and cemented the ruthlessness displayed by the man we see in the film. Albeit short, this story is of paramount importance to the Count's development, at least insofar as his life narrated by me is concerned.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Adelheid_Desgoffe_Taxis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adelheid_Desgoffe_Taxis/gifts).



> The story derives its title from the old German poem 'Der Gute Kamerad' (also known as Ich Hatt' Einen Kameraden) by Ludwig Uhland (later made into a song by German folk composer Friedrich Silcher.)

[Setting: Lutz, 1932. Shortly after the murder of Mme. Celine Villeneuve Desgoffe-und-Taxis]

Precisely one day had passed since the reading of his mother’s will, a family event which proved utterly disastrous to the Zubrowkian heir (an understatement).

Presently, a pensive Dmitri awaited the arrival of the relevant authorities — namely, that of Albert J. Henckels, Deputy Chief of Lutz Police Militia — scotch glass faithfully in hand. The purpose of Henckels’ impending visit was to file a police report against one M. Gustave H, a British immigrant who presided over the Grand Budapest Hotel in Nebelsbad as its head concierge.

Gripping the glass firmly, Dmitri moved from the large window of the stately library, naught but his opaque reflection visible against the backdrop of falling snow flurries.

Soon enough, Clotilde, his dutiful brunette French maid, announced Henckels’ arrival at the medieval manor. It was time to spin a tale, the ebony-haired aristocrat thought as the inspector paced towards him, looking regal in a Feldgrau soldier’s uniform.

Exchanged greetings were formal and cool, despite the expanse of their shared history. Henckels, dutiful as ever, carefully recorded every allegation spouted by clever Dmitri on the matter of his mother’s demise, pinning the entirety of the crime on Monsieur Gustave H.

Present to corroborate this version of the events were Dmitri’s three sisters: Marguerite, Laetizia, and Carolina Desgoffe-und-Taxis, without whom the plot could have never sought to advance.

Naïve and noble-hearted, Henckels placed aside any personal distaste for the Count, penning the events as these were relayed unto him, in an enviably neat hand.

“Would that be all that you witnessed, ladies?”

Albert asked, ensuring he’d written all which concerned his impending investigation (a long-distance statement by post would later be made by one Gregor Lagerfeld [a distant relation], attesting to the veracity of the Desgoffe-und-Taxis children’s claims). 

The three elder sisters nodded in agreement, anxious to escape the scene.

“Very well, if that is all, I would like a moment alone with your brother.” 

Clearing his throat, Henckels stated, azure gaze demurely traveling to the immaculately polished floor.

“We’ll let you gentlemen have a minute, then.”

The black-clad triumvirate answered, rising from their seats and exiting through the library’s main entrance.

“That leaves us two.”

Henckels uttered, report papers in hand, raising his blue eyes and focusing them upon Dmitri instead.

“So it does.”

Dmitri acknowledged the chestnut-haired soldier coolly, swirling the pungent scotch inside his glass before indulging in another sip.

“Dmi- er. . .”

Albert started, before promptly correcting himself.

“Mr. Desgoffe-und-Taxis?”

“Yes?”

Answered Dmitri, steely as ever, turning to half-face Henckels.

“Do you recall anything from the war?”

This certainly was not an agreed-upon topic for the pair, who could not even be called friends, least of all now. Yet Dmitri did not dismiss Henckels’ query, pausing to swig the remainder of the amber liquid from his ornately cut glass.

“He was your friend too, wasn’t he?”

A tinge of desperation permeated Henckels’ voice, causing it to raise an octave, as if in imploration for some type of information.

“Yes, he was.”

Was all Dmitri could state in return, a subtle guilt filling the aristocrat’s body as a morose expression washed upon his sallow face.

“It’s a pity life caused the both of us to drift apart.”

A stoic Dmitri continued, resting his glass atop the verdant surface of the library’s pool table, spidery hands clasping swiftly behind his back.

“But I am glad he knew friendship with you. Even if. . .”

The nobleman’s customarily strong voice failed him, straining before he could conclude his sentence.

Henckels’ head lowered thereafter, right hand reaching to remove his hat. A stifling, uncomfortable atmosphere seemed to fill the interior of that ancient space as Dmitri and Henckels stood, opposite each other, holding naught but their respective memories of that stormy time in Zubrowkian history.

Years later, they both missed the same person, still, clutching their memories as if afraid he’d slip from consciousness.

To Dmitri, Ludwig August Haller of Berlin had been a friend. For a long time, his /only/ friend in the daunting military sphere.

To Albert Henckels, Ludwig had proven more than just a source of friendship. Their bond transcended that which the post-war years would term trench ‘kameraderie,’ the pair budding from the tumult of the world’s most harrowing war into young lovers, as Dmitri retreated further into the dark nightlife typical of transient corporals.

[End of Prelude]


	2. Casanova Rides No Longer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief, (hopefully) historically faithful summary of the events which are to take place during this short story's third installment, mainly detailing the conflict which was occurring between Britain, France, Austria and Germany at the time. For the sake of this fictional narrative, of course, Zubrowkia is allied with Germany and the Austrian empire, against Britain and France, etc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not an overly detailed historian's summary of WWI, suffice it to say.

[July 1916]  
Dmitri and his company had been moved from sleepy Alsace-Lorraine, wherein they’d been stationed two years prior, to fight in the Battle of the Somme — one of the bloodiest in World War I, with both the Allied and the Central Powers taking heavy casualties by the conclusion of the campaign.

[Britain: 420,000. France: 200,000. Germany: 465,000-630,000.*

For the purposes of our fictionalized account, the German casualties will include Zubrowkian lives lost in the war effort during the Battle of the Somme].

The Battle of the Somme would last from July 1 to November 1, 1916, with artillery being the key to a British-led offensive. However, even this did not suffice to hold past German-dug trenches (Stollen), as artillery could not reliably knock down enemy guns, or provide a barrage for infantry attack.

Further, the Germans led an admirable offensive in the beginning stages of Somme, pouring deadly fire unto the advancing British in one of the most remarkable defensive victories in military history. (British casualties after the first day of the German retaliation cite 60% missing, wounded, or dead, with the remainder forced back to their starting points of attack. This compelled the Allied troops, particularly the British, to henceforth change their method of attack).

After July, a long stalemate developed between the Allied and Central Powers, which would hold until November 1, 1916. German armies had, since 1914, dug hefty defenses along the territory presently fought over, with the intention of shielding themselves against Allied attacks. However, British-led barrages during which artillery would indiscriminately rain down upon German troops would serve to weaken German opposition, killing many defenders. Thus, the objective of Somme shifted from a mere battle to break German lines of defense to a battle designed to kill or wound as many Germans as humanly possible.

The British effort of German annihilation was ironically helped by German troops, who refused to surrender, holding their ground and retaking any previously lost position, at whatever the price. This predictably left German forces vulnerable to artillery fire.

To counter-attack the British offensive, many Germans abandoned the relative safety of their trenches and ventured forth into the front lines, suffering high casualties. The duration and brutality of attacks launched by the British and French during the Battle of the Somme stunned German high command, causing them to entirely forsake any hopes for a counter-offensive strike.

At this point, Somme descended from a British-hatched attack initiative to a long battle of attrition, which extended into the beginning of winter by British order, ending on November 1, 1916. Due to heavy losses, Somme is considered a Pyrrhic victory on the German side of the war effort.


	3. The Drum Called to Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third and final chapter in this installment: prompted by Henckels, Dmitri recalls one of the last major battles he fought in the Great War, and his friend Ludwig's role in the events, which would culminate in the reshaping of the young Zubrowkian's destiny.

“And do you remember that day?”

At long last, uttered — a question the younger Henckels yearned to ask, but which he’d refrained from raising given his less-than-stellar history with Count Dmitri.

“How could I possibly forget?”

A haunting response, the glassy-eyed aristocrat staring absently into the void beyond his windowpane. 

[Somme, France. October 31, 1916.

None presently fighting at the front imagined that this long war of attrition would soon conclude in a Pyrrhic German victory, its long and arduous standstill disintegrating in a matter of mere hours.

Setting: Morning, one day before the campaign would come to an end.]

Ludwig Haller awakened from a deep, oddly restful slumber, rising to dress and comb his platinum hair before a hazy mirror. Ever valiant, the blond Berliner was eager to face the Anglo-French offensive, striving to defend his sacred homeland — his Kaiser— against the nearing enemy.

Last night’s dream seemed more a premonition, or so the youth opined, vividly recalling the solemn pounding of a wartime drum — a consecrated call to arms, if ever there was one.

Though he told no one of this vision, young Ludwig found himself in higher spirits than most that day, going so far as to approach his estranged friend, Count Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis, bestowing the wispy, sallow youth with a handsome bayonet.

No words, polite or otherwise, were exchanged between the two, much to Ludwig’s disappointment. Alas, that shining Casanova existed in a sphere entirely divorced from the other’s predicaments, his playboy ways prematurely stifled by the threat of climaxing war. Unlike most soldiers, Dmitri did not long for heroics — he was but a frustrated artist, better suited to tread the halls of Akademie Zubrowka, meant to excel at fencing and the violin.

But the drum summoned them all the same, as it did youths by the thousands, its tune neither arcane nor prophetic, but compellingly unrelenting in its brash reality.

So it was that, on the morning of October the 31st, Dmitri and Ludwig, along with the remainder of their company, would peril beyond the safety of the trenches, attempting to hold the German line in the face of a ruthless British advance.

Patriotism burned in the breast of every German, Austrian, and Zubrowkian, as the conglomerate representing the Central Powers trotted past the safety of the ‘Stollen’ and into the hazardous territory of the front line, primed to resist the Anglo-French assault at any cost.

Equipped with an arsenal consisting of bayonets, artillery, rifles, poison gas and grenades, they marched past the expansive fields separating their territory from that of the Anglo-French offenders, set to risk life and limb for the glory of the Fatherland, any fear they felt serving only to fuel their drive to expel the invaders.

Chiseled and stoic, blond Ludwig led the brigade, resolve washing over his square-jawed, porcelain face. Step by step, the others followed into battle, a stolid, pale Dmitri marching somberly at the Berliner’s side. The earth under their dirt-specked riding boots was scorched and barren — the natural result of a war of attrition waged over four months without reprieve for either side.

Bravely, the soldiers flooded into the battlefield, determined to defeat their opponents, bracing to face whatever Hell awaited once the incursion began. 

Heavier shells littered their perilous path as the Allied barrage stormed in, raining down even on those amongst the brigade who sought retreat in the face of such a formidable adversary. Ludwig and Dmitri, however, held the line, as did a minority of others — true believers in the cause, prepared to stand their ground unto death if necessary.

All around, chaos reigned, shrapnel cutting into the scurrying forms of withdrawing soldiers and shredding them instantly. (Those who did not immediately succumb to such injuries would likely fold to a dolorous, sepsis-induced death.)

The battleground raged — an inferno worse than Dante could foretell — explosion after explosion maiming and confounding every soldier who dared oppose the oncoming scourge, flinging some like rag dolls upon the still desolation of the ashen atmosphere, leaving a trail of strewn, partly incinerated corpses seeming to beg for a mercy that would never touch upon them.

Death loomed over German troops amidst the ascending smoke, a danse macabre of artfully fired artillery claiming lives by the thousands, as if to augur the tragedy of a Wagnerian end. Yet, the Count and his Berliner friend stubbornly held the precious line, each a valiant soldier in his own right, willing to kill or die as the figurative weather dictated.

Shells continued to buffet the wounded and the dying, causing body parts of fallen comrades to become airborne in a horrifying display, leaving each stunned, surviving soldier with no option but to keep on firing, hardening internally to cope with their despair.

Ludwig and Dmitri were now at the forefront of the battle, bayonets in hand, the former holding an ambition to serve his Fatherland, the latter merely harboring a death wish.

Suddenly, the duo was met by an ambushing soldier, a sandy-haired British corporal who promptly took aim at Dmitri, seeking a distracted target. 

Aiming for the dark-haired noble, his pallid finger pulled the trigger, releasing a lone bullet with a bang. Sharply, the lethal object embarked upon its intended trajectory, halted (after a series of brief, pounding seconds) only by the rapid intervention of intrepid Ludwig, whose body boldly sprung forward to protect his former friend from falling prey to this attack.

In the blink of an eye, the young Berliner’s body was swept away by this foe’s merciless fire, leaving a shaken, momentarily immobilized Dmitri.

Paralyzed, Dmitri heaved, wounded Ludwig vainly gasping for air and bleeding at his feet, stretching a trembling, lily-white hand in the aristocrat’s direction.

But the battle weighed on, the Count returning to his senses and reloading in hopes of retaliating against Ludwig’s assassin, leaving him no choice but to stoically press forward, overlooking the Berliner’s final breaths, the blond’s hand jerking slightly before it moved no more.

“My dear Ludwig, I cannot hold your hand. . .”

Fighting back tears, a misty-eyed Dmitri aimed his weapon, knowing his friend had gone by the time he pulled the trigger.

“Rest in eternal life, my good comrade. “

And just then, amidst the noise and fog of unyielding artillery, all went quiet on the Western Front. . .


End file.
